Shift quietly creeped onto a parking lot in the Heights overnight a few months back, like a ghost. I'd visited the Santa Fe location a year and some change ago and walked away fairly happy with my experience. To be honest, my recollection was a bit hazy, and I had to go back and read my old review of it while I sat in my car outside the front door.
Reading old things you've written is a terrible idea. Apparently I tumbled down an internet hole looking for evidence of the chupacabra after smoking a strain named after the mythical beast. My sappy enthusiasm is embarrassing now. It was a different time 16 months ago. Jeff Sessions was providing lowly cannabis writers with endless material. “Stormy Daniels” sounded like the name of a track horse. I still liked Louis C.K. “The good ol' days.”
I skimmed parts of it, became disgusted and shoved my phone in my pocket, stared out the windshield blankly and took my notepad out. “Monsters used to be fun,” I wrote. I tapped the pen against the steering wheel before giving up and going inside.
The showroom was dead and I could see bored budtenders fiddling with perfectly displayed items and inspecting pristine glass. It was clean and open, with a nice modern feel. I checked in and followed a friendly employee as she lead me on a tour of the product displays. She had kind eyes that flashed terror when I asked about strain specifics. “I'm sure we can look it up,” I said, trying to assuage her nerves.
I hurriedly chose a couple of expensive strains and rolled out before I caused any more distress. I never saw another living soul.
On the way home I listened to rap music that didn't make sense to me and wondered if time was less like a stopwatch and more like dripping molasses—starting out painfully slow but becoming threateningly fast once it starts flowing in earnest. I had a terrible headache.
Back home, it had developed into a spike digging into the back of my head and poking out through the left eyeball. I'd heard anecdotes from a migraine sufferer I know well who swears by indicas for headaches, so I broke into a bag of Chemdawg 4 (THC: 26.74%, CBD: 0.07%—$13/gram) before taking off my shoes or reaching for the ibuprofen.
The Chemdawg strains are some of my favorites, but they're usually sativas. This one was labeled “indica-dominant,” and I was especially curious to see what that meant. It was dry and crunchy, but it smelled intensely like Froot Loops. I cornered the bowl for a better taste and didn't find anything strange. It tasted sour and overwhelmingly of diesel. Again, I'm a big fan of diesel strains, but I definitely associate it with sativas and happy-go-lucky Josh. I smoked through the bowl, examining the package and laughing smoke when I saw the “use by” date was a whole year later.
From my notes: “Nothing dopey. Still sharp and feeling razzed. Sometimes 'indica' is just a name.”
The headache began to ease, but not by much. There was no sound in my apartment but the ticking of a Felix the Cat clock as the tail swung back and forth. I shifted on the couch, making a grating sound with my ass, and remembered my shoes. I wasn't feeling very relaxed, despite the “indica” label. I wasn't feeling very different at all, really. I'd enjoyed the taste, but it wasn't anything to write mom about.
On cue, she called. I answered and broke up some White Fire OG (THC: 19.15%—$12/gram). It was almost as dry as the Chemdawg and left a fine green dust on the tray. Mom was complaining about Trump, or praising him—I don't remember which, because I was reading the package saying I was about to smoke flower from Everest Apothecary. God bless it, they got me in my hurry to roll out. I hadn't noticed they were selling other people's product. There's no shame in that, but it was a little irritating since I literally just bought a gram of White Fire OG at Everest a week ago that was considerably fresher and a full dollar cheaper per gram—making me wonder what the point was.
Nevertheless, I'm a fan of the strain and decided to let it roll off my back. I made a noncommittal joke about Trump's thumb being a national treasure and stuck my nose in the package with the remaining buds. White Fire OG smelled like Flinstones' vitamins and tasted like baby's breath (the flower, not sour milk). The taste was very faint, though, and I was once again nonplussed by the overexposed flower's lack of effect. This strain is a sativa, but it hardly raised my mood or made me feel like the Buddha, or whatever.
I told mom I had a headache and complained about the flower. She lives in Texas, where they throw you in a hole for a million years just for complaining about bad marijuana. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. The dried-out, CBN-laden was making me drowsy and I signed off.
From my notes: “Leaves a bad taste in the mouth. Makes mothers sarcastic.”